


a solitary thing.

by whiskyandoldspice (Itsirtou)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsirtou/pseuds/whiskyandoldspice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way Dean loves Sam is enough, except when it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a solitary thing.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Askance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askance/gifts).



When Sam was fifteen, he'd started staring.

Staring at Dean’s arm when he draped it over a girl’s shoulder, staring at Dean’s hands during target practice, staring at Dean’s hips when Dean’s t-shirt rode up, only looking away, flushed, when Dean caught his gaze.  Dean hadn't been sure why the fuck Sam had started looking at him like that but their childhood had been fucked to hell and Dean was the only one there for Sam most of the time, so - whatever.  Normal wasn't in their genes.  Dean had started making his interest in girls more obvious, making out with them in the Impala in front of motel rooms where Sam could see.  

One time, when Dad had been gone, the two of them left alone, Dean had invited a girl over to the house and fucked her in the room he and Sam shared.  He’d taken her hand and led her up the staircase while she giggled, telling Sam to turn on the TV and make it loud.  Sam hadn’t said a word.  But Dean had heard something outside the room while he was eating her out, a noise he almost missed over the little squeals she was making as she wriggled around, his hands on her hips, his lips and chin wet from her cunt.  It’d been just quiet enough for a moment for Dean to catch a soft, hungry noise from right outside the door.  Sam.  He should have stopped, chased Sam away.  He hadn't. He'd fucked the girl instead, making her scream, making the bed squeak, trying to cover up his brother's muffled moans from the other side of the wall.

Maybe he'd thought it would just stop as Sam grew up. Dean had started throwing girls at Sam as Sam got older, ganglier, prettier.  But Sam hadn't paid attention to any of them, no matter how beautiful they'd been, and eventually Dean had stopped doing anything about Sam’s love life and had instead just started ignored the looks and the touches and the way Sam cried late at night, fist stuffed into his mouth to muffle himself, when he thought Dean was asleep.

Sam had gone for it, just once, when he’d been seventeen.

In retrospect, Dean had probably been fucking stupid in the first place.  Dad had been gone, and Dean managed to snag a pack of beer and a little baggie of grass, so he'd coaxed Sam into the back of Dean’s car, rolled down the windows, and lit up a couple joints. Not even twenty minutes later Sam had gone sloe-eyed and loose, grinning dopily up at Dean.  What had Dean thought?  That he’d give Sam a fat joint and explain to his baby brother that Sam needed to stop thinking about Dean’s dick?  Whatever his plan was it had fucking backfired the second Sam had leaned forward, his eyes on Dean’s lips, begging for Dean to kiss him. 

“Please,” Sam had whispered, his voice a high desperate whine, “please, Dean, I’ve been _waiting_ for you.  I don’t want anyone else, I never have.  Please.”   Sometime in the last few minutes Sam had moved his hand, resting it on Dean’s shoulder, tentative. Jesus.  Dean had known this was coming.   Had he not stopped it because he wanted it too, wanted to fuck his little brother?  Was that it? _God_.

“We can’t, Sammy,” he’d said back, wanting to sound forceful but sounding unsure and weak instead.  _Fuck_.  “Sam, you’re my brother, dude, we can’t –“

“No, Dean –“ and then Sam had slid his hand down til it rested on Dean’s belt buckle, hovering right over his dick, soft and uninterested, and if Sam had moved his hand any lower Dean had known he would’ve thrown up in the car and how would he have explained that to Dad, how would he ever have explained it – sorry your car smells like weed and puke but your youngest son tried to jack me off after I poured a couple beers down his throat?  He’d put one hand on Sam’s shoulder and pushed, too forcefully by far but he was _scared_ , terrified.  Sam’s head had snapped back and hit the passenger’s side window. He’d slumped there, staring at Dean, his eyes wet.

“We can’t,” Dean had hissed.  “This is sick.  You have to stop.  We _can’t_.”

He’d realized as he’d said it that his wording was wrong. He needed to stop saying _we_ , needed to start saying _I_.  _I_ don’t want this, _I_ don’t want you.  But Sam seemed to have gotten the message anyway, letting out a sharp little breath like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he’d whispered, staring at Dean. He hadn’t cried, thank God, just sitting there with his head against the window where it had hit, his mouth open, pupils huge.  “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry, I didn’t – I just wanted, I’m sorry –“

“Shut up,” Dean had said, head hurting from the pot and the beer and the way Sam’s voice had shook as he talked. “We’ll forget this happened, okay?  Just forget about it, Sam.”

“I spilled my beer on the floor,” Sam had said then, in a very small voice. 

“Just go inside, dude.  I’ll clean it up.”

“Dad’s gonna know –“

“He won’t know shit, all right? Go take a shower. I’ll clean this up and make you some food.”

Sam had given Dean one last hunted look and clambered out of the car, unsteady on his long legs, like a newborn colt.   He hadn’t walked inside—he'd run.  Dean cleaned up the beer, made Sam an entire bag of pizza rolls, and assumed that was the end of it, that Sam finally _got_ it. 

Now, three years later, that all goes to hell when _he_ goes to hell.  Literally, figuratively, whatever.  Bound to happen, just fate, couldn’t be stopped, all that bullshit.  Dean knows he could have stopped it and didn’t, and that’s on him now.

When Sam opens up the door of that crummy no-tell motel and sees Dean, when he pulls Dean tight against his chest breathing _thank God, thank God Dean, I was looking for you I couldn’t get you out I couldn’t find a way to save you, Dean, Dean, Dean_ into Dean’s hair—Dean knows it’s going to happen.  Bobby leaves them alone and Dean wants to call out to him. The girl is already gone. Kathy, Kristy, whatever. Sam’s forgotten her and forgotten Bobby, and his hands are huge and warm, resting on the small of Dean’s back. Seeing Sam’s face ( _his real face not his hell-face, not the things Dean had seen there that had been not-Sam_ ) was like breathing air for the first time and the solidness of Sam’s big body, the tight way he pulled Dean against him, all of that had felt good but now Sam won’t let go, won’t stop crying, and Dean’s chest is starting to feel tight.  He knows.  He knows what’s happening. He knows what’s going to happen. And doesn’t—doesn’t Sam deserve it, to get what he wants?  Sam deserves to be happy more than anyone in the world.  And Dean left him alone this whole time.  He thinks maybe he’s never taken care of Sam the way he should have.

He doesn’t want Sam to kiss him first. He doesn’t want that to be on Sam’s conscience.  Sam doesn’t deserve that, if this whole thing goes to shit.  So when Sam starts to let him go, Dean doesn’t let him.

“Dean—” Sam says, his eyebrows furrowing, and Dean kisses him on the mouth.

Sam pushes him away immediately, hard, his eyes wild. He’s breathing hard.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he hisses, his hand going to his mouth, fingers touching his lips. “Dean—”

If he talks he’ll fuck things up, so Dean grabs Sam’s jacket in both hands and hauls him in again, lips insistent against Sam’s, tongue inside his baby brother’s mouth.  Sam’s arms are trapped between them, and he gets a solid grip on Dean’s t-shirt with one hand, twisting the fabric in his fingers, like he wants to take it off but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.  He’s crying into the kiss, whispering Dean’s name.  Dean wants to close his eyes and pretend it’s someone else but he can’t do that to Sam.  It’s not fair.

He can’t fuck Sam.  He can’t fuck his little brother.  Dean doesn’t think he could get hard for it.  He’s gotta—he has to keep Sam’s hands out of his pants and off his body. He drops to his knees, hitting the ground hard.  When he looks up, Sam’s eyes are wide, panicked.  Sam takes a step back, and then another, til his back is against the wall.   He has his hands held in front of his crotch and it’d be funny if Dean weren’t trying to force himself to suck Sam’s dick.

“Dean,” he whispers.  He looks so young.  Dean remembers the weight of Sam in his arms, the heat of the fire against his back. “Dean, wait.  Please wait.  Do you want—what are you doing?”

Dean shuffles forward on his knees. He doesn’t try looking Sam in the face again; that was a mistake.

“Please talk to me,” Sam begs, bewildered and scared.  “Dean, I thought you were in hell and now you’re—”  He doesn’t finish the sentence, and Dean still doesn’t look at him.

“I missed you, Sammy,” Dean says. It isn’t a lie. He hears Sam suck in a tiny sharp breath.  His hands are by his side now, and Dean can see the outline of his hard dick in his jeans.

“You want me?” Sam asks, sounding tentative. His voice cracks in the middle of the sentence. Dean would rather shoot himself in the head and go back to hell than say no and break his baby brother’s heart again.

“Yeah,” he says.  His voice is steady. 

Sam lets out a tiny sobbing cry when Dean presses a soft kiss to the tip of Sam’s cock.  It’s Dean’s first time with a dick in his mouth but it doesn’t seem to matter to Sam; his hips are twitching, his hand resting on the top of Dean’s head like he doesn’t know if Dean will let him touch.  Dean pins Sam’s hips to the wall and swallows as much of Sam’s dick as he can manage without choking.  _Can’t barf on my brother’s dick_ , he thinks, and for some reason it’s so absurdly funny that he lets out the tiniest laugh around Sam’s cock.  Sam cries out, hunching over, the muscles in his stomach jumping. “Dean—“ he says, like a prayer, “Dean, Dean, Dean, gonna, please Dean I’m gonna, I can’t—“

Dean swallows it all and doesn’t choke once. He keeps Sam’s dick in his mouth until it starts to go soft, until Sam presses a hand against his shoulder, insistent, his breath coming in sharp, pitiable sobs.  Without the support of Dean’s hands on his hips Sam slides down the wall, sitting in a slump, staring at Dean, who hasn’t moved from the kneeling position he’d been in while he sucked Sam off.  His knees hurt, one thigh starting to cramp insistently. Sam’s face is flushed, his cheeks wet, his eyes huge.  Dean’s fucked Sam up so bad for years and now this is the result, the taste of Sam’s come in his mouth and Sam staring at Dean like sucking Sam’s dick saved his life.

Dean’s lips are dry.  He wishes Sam would say something.

“Can I,” Sam whispers, tentative. He doesn’t move toward Dean, not yet, the look in his eyes still scared, a little lost, so Dean nods.

Dean closes his eyes as tight as he can while Sam jacks him off, his hands resting on Sam’s broad shoulders. He hates himself for getting hard in Sam’s hand, hates himself for how good Sam’s mouth feels on his neck. He doesn’t speak or open his eyes, and when he comes Sam leans forward, kissing him softly, and Dean hates himself for how good that feels, too.

Dean sits there quietly while Sam gets a wet washcloth and cleans them both up.  Sam’s back to staring at him again, but at least that fear is gone, and that’s what matters right now.  It’s all that’s ever mattered and Dean can’t believe there was a time he thought anything else was more important. He waits until Sam falls asleep, and then he turns on the shower and throws up in the toilet.

He climbs into bed behind Sam, wrapping his arms around his brother, leaning his forehead between Sam’s shoulderblades.

“Sorry,” he whispers against Sam’s bare skin. Sam doesn’t answer, his breathing steady and deep.

Dean’s still awake when, hours later, Sam rolls over, smiling sleepily, and kisses him.

“Morning,” he says. Dean smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Sam wants Dean. Dean doesn't want him back. Dean sleeps with Sam out of guilt and doesn't tell Sam that it isn't what he wants. So I guess in that sense, it's vaguely dub-con. Sam doesn't manipulate Dean (intentionally) into doing anything, though.


End file.
